


and then

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [14]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Further adventures of the American Idiot and the Emotionally Deficient Robot who <strike>loves</strike> tolerates him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. setting boundaries

David goes to Toronto when Jake does, and it feels like homecoming. They're on different teams this time, and the first time Jake drives him back from the arena it feels illicit, even though that's ridiculous, even though they've been on different teams their entire lives, and it's never stopped them before. Jake says some of his teammates tease him about carpooling with the enemy. None of David's teammates say anything to him. David doesn't even know if they notice.

David spends the night. For the first few weeks Jake tears himself away any time hands stray past belts, drives David home, and David's practically shaking, he's so frustrated, jerking off in the shower, in bed, once in Jake's bathroom, Jake in the living room, Jake's mouth slack, cheeks pink when David came out, obviously aware of what had been happening. Tenting his shorts so obviously David couldn't look away, wanted to touch him, take him out, bury him so deep in David's body he couldn't leave. That night, David took a cab, uncomfortably aware that Jake had probably taken himself out, blood hot, the second David had left.

The first night David stays, Jake breaks whatever code of--David doesn't know, chivalry? Chastity? Some word Jake probably didn't even know--and David bites his forearm so hard he's got marks in the morning with Jake's throat tight around him. He tries to get up, after, pull himself together, but Jake's got an arm tight around his body, won't let go, and David feels lax, unsprung, and can't put together the energy to get out of bed. They don't even have training the next day. There's no reason to get out of comfort just to drive across town and get between cool sheets.

The second time he has less of an excuse, and the third, and so on, until David thinks he has more clothes at Jake's place than he has in his hotel room, dirty clothes that Jake throws in his hamper and washes with his own, which makes David flush to think about, clean clothes that smell like Jake's detergent. He loses his ipod for a couple days and finds it between the cushions of Jake's couch. He falls asleep with Jake breathing hot against his neck. He's never been happier, and that scares him.

*

They don't tell anyone. David doesn't want to, David will never want to, and Jake quietly asks if he can tell his family in mid-July and then drops it when David snaps at him, something tight, still scared, so scared, in the pit of his stomach. David spends the next night in his hotel room and Jake doesn't bring it up again.

But David can't stop thinking about it, how Jake's face had dropped, like not being able to tell his family something _hurt_ him, like it was important. When July's trailing away, when it's three days before they're going their separate ways, Jake back to Detroit and David to New York, David mumbles to his chopsticks that if Jake wants to tell his family, he can. Jake almost knocks over the rice when he hugs David, and it's almost enough to make the coiled tight feeling in David's stomach disappear.

He gets roped into going up to Detroit in August, and the less said about that, the better.

But it was one thing for Jake's parents, sisters to know. It's another thing for anyone else. The Panthers start making elaborate stories up about Jake's secret girlfriend once the season starts again and Jake disappears after games in the NYC area, ones Jake relays first with amusement, then sounding tired, then not at all. The Panthers hit New York for three straight away games, The Isles, the Rangers and the Devils, and Jake spends more time at David's apartment than at his hotel. He doesn't say a word about talk, though it must be incessant. Maybe he's gotten over it.

It's a month later, a month they haven't seen each other, had a few short calls and a text war about how the Raptors' chances are. David doesn't really care one way or the other, but it will never stop amazing him, how passionate Jake gets about anything and everything.

It's a month later when Jake calls, laughing half-heartedly when David chirps him over a Raptors win the night before, one he'd checked Sportsnet twice in order to see if he'd have a chirping opportunity at all. David trails off, awkward, aware something's off, because Jake's quiet and that's just weird, when Jake finally talks. 

"They keep asking me about my girlfriend," Jake says.

That's nothing new--the Panthers apparently decided as a group that Jake’s girlfriend must be sweet and charming and made of sunshine, and have bugged him about meeting her since. It makes David feel dimly guilty, like it’s his fault Jake's team is nosy, which it isn't. 

"That's not new," David says, finally.

"I fucking hate it," Jake spits out, and David flinches, taken aback. "Sorry," Jake says, immediately. "I know you--sorry."

“I didn’t know you hated it,” David says, cautious.

“It’s fine,” Jake says, and David wants to take him at face value, so he does. 

*  
It's another month later when that all falls apart. 

"I told them," Jake says during another call, apropos of nothing, interrupting David in the middle of a game breakdown. He never interrupts David, not really, even when David’s working himself up he just watches him with a faint smile until David, feeling embarrassed, stops.

"Told who what?" David asks, confused.

"I told them I didn't have a girlfriend," Jake says.

"You tell them that every time," David says. "They never believe you."

"They believe me," Jake says, heavy. It's all he's wanted for months, so David doesn't know why he sounds so fucking down about it. "I told them I was dating a guy."

David feels hot. "Why the fuck would you do that?" he asks. He knows this league, he knows how much they talk. It was less than a day after Samuels' girlfriend dumped him that the entire team knew she'd found out what he'd gotten up to after some of the away games, and the roster was split between commiseration and satisfaction that he'd finally been called on the shit they'd watched. David bets the news about Jake has spread beyond the Panthers already. 

"It's better, okay?" Jake says. "I--I fucking hated lying to them, David."

"You didn't," David says, automatically, then, "how is this any better? You still can't tell them who you're dating."

Jake's silent.

"Jake," David says, and when Jake doesn't respond, " _Lourdes_."

"It was just a couple of them," Jake says. "They just--they kept asking and I--"

David hangs up on him.

Jake calls back twice while David's got his hands in fists, trying to keep the bile down. Texts after, ones David should ignore, vision gone blurry and heart kicked up in his throat, and does until the next morning, when he wakes up exhausted, sick to his stomach.

First there's _i trust them_ , then _they wont tell_ , followed by _im sry_ , which is instantly undermined by _i cudnt keep lying to them_.

David breathes in and out, even. _Maybe you should get a girlfriend or boyfriend you can talk about._ he sends. _Because you can't talk about me._

The phone starts ringing in his hand less than thirty seconds after he sends the text, and he turns it off, goes to the bathroom to lean his head against the cold tile wall, fight the nausea working its way through him, the panicked pulse. Maybe it's made its way to the Islanders already, Kurmazov trying to take him aside, Benson and company sneering about how they finally figured out why the fuck Jake Lourdes would spend time with him. Maybe the media--his agent hasn't called yet, so no, but it could, still. He's seen it happen, seen everything fall apart, and he can't. He can't.

It's two days before he turns his phone back on. His last text from Jake is from five minutes after the one he sent, _are u breaking up with me?_ , and radio silence since. He guesses silence says enough.


	2. sense of perspective

When Gabe's phone rings at five in the morning, Jake's name up on the screen, the only thing that gets him out of bed is that Jake doesn't call if it's not big. Texts him a lot, at least a few times a week, but Gabe can count on three fingers how many times Jake's called in the last year. It has to be very, very bad--Stephen's injury, or very, very good--Gabe's Cup, Chapman actually deigning to go on a date with Jake, though they have slightly different views on whether that's good news--and Gabe suspects if Jake's being a big enough dick to wake him up before sunrise, it's not good.

Also, Stephen's still sleeping, but restless now, and if he finds out Jake Lourdes is the reason he's awake at five, well. Stephen hates Jake irrationally. Best not to give him ammo. 

Gabe hits answer halfway through the bedroom, just to silence the ring, waits until he's in the bathroom to answer, squinting against the shock of artificial light.

"You know I live three hours behind you, right?" he says. "You suck at math but there's no way you don't know that."

Jake doesn't laugh, which pretty much confirms the very, very bad news guess. Jake laughs at fucking everything. Even jokes that aren't remotely funny. _Especially_ jokes that aren't remotely funny. 

"What's up?" Gabe asks.

"He broke up with me," Jake says, sounding small.

"Doesn't he have to admit you're dating to do that?" Gabe asks.

"Fuck off," Jake snaps, then immediately contrite. "Sorry."

"No," Gabe says. "Don't worry about it."

Gabe had known this shit from the start, Jake curious then tumbling right into infatuation and getting in too deep too fast. It'd been easy to think of Chapman as another in a string of Jake's shitty romantic choices, the ones who would always treat him like shit and then leave him miserable for a little while, until he bounced back and went on to another doomed fucking romance. He's got bad taste, and he doesn't learn a thing from it, but he's resilient, so it doesn't weigh on him. It's past that point now though, probably was past it a year ago, definitely after this summer, when Jake's texts were constant streams of inanities and smilies, enough to bewilder Gabe, and Gabe is very, very used to Jake's smiley brigade. 

"What'd he freak out about this time?" Gabe asks.

"I told some of the guys," Jake says. "About dating a guy. About dating him."

"Him specifically?" Gabe asks.

Jake's quiet.

Gabe's never had any sympathy for Chapman in his life. It's an uncomfortable feeling, being on his side. "You're a fucking asshole," he says. "You outed him?"

"No one would say shit," Jake says, like this is an argument he's pulled out before. "These are my guys. I trust these guys."

"You outed a self-loathing closet case to hockey players," Gabe says flatly. Fuck, Stephen's been pretty much moved in for months, and the only people who know anything for sure are their parents and Kurmazov, who had really unfortunate timing post-Cup. Nothing's secret, but the Canucks have basically made a sport about how much innuendo they can get away with without actively admitting they know Gabe and Stephen are fucking, and Gabe hasn't even told _Jake_ , though that has more to do with how pissy he knows Stephen would get about it, because he's pretty sure Jake knew about them before they did. 

And Gabe isn't ashamed, he'll never be, not of anything that involves Stephen, especially that, but it's no one's fucking business but theirs. And from the bits and pieces he's gotten from Jake over the years, since he'd deduced it from the start, or near enough, Chapman's about as far back in the closet as you can get while still fucking a guy.

Jake's quiet again. "Shit," he says, quiet, more breath than a word. 

"Your sisters didn't enlighten you on that fact?" Gabe asks.

"I think they're still sleeping," Jake says. "They didn't pick up."

"So you wake the dude on the West Coast," Gabe says. "Because today is apparently the day you're trying out being an asshole."

It's harsh, but he's sleep deprived, and just the idea of it makes his fists clench. If Jake had mentioned shit about the two of them to anyone in the league, on their team or otherwise, Gabe probably wouldn't still be friends with him. And he'd never been ashamed of him and Jake either.

"What am I supposed to do here?" Jake asks, and it's plaintive, the voice of a little boy out of his depth, the way Jake's always been when it comes to his own heart. Gabe's always felt tender towards him for that, and his indefatigable optimism, but it's a little late for fairy tale endings in this sad fucking story.

"Move on," Gabe says, as gently as he can. "Because that kid holds a hell of a grudge and he's got a good reason this time."

"I don't want to," Jake says, and Gabe wants to tell him that's just too fucking bad, but he doesn't, because he's sure the Lourdes sisters will supply that line, and anyway, he's tired, just got in from a long road trip and is still re-adjusting to Stephen sprawled out over more than half the bed, stealing his blankets and trapping him with wandering, clingy limbs in exchange. He'd like to get reacquainted, at least for the few more hours he has until he has to be up for practice.

"I know," Gabe says, instead, and listens to Jake breathing, shaky, from half a continent away.


	3. purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to play a game, is dreading it, and he hates Jake for that.

David never realised how much time he spent talking to Jake until he isn’t. Until his days are dragging out at pace he can’t stand, and he’s at loose ends, not able to remember what he’d filled the time up with before, the slow minutes that crop up between games and practices and travel, and there’s only so much he can train before he does more harm to his game than good.

Jake hasn’t contacted him since that last unanswered text, a rhetorical question he probably hadn’t considered rhetorical, and David keeps looking at his phone like the next time he peeks at it there will be another text to ignore, to delete, whatever, but there isn’t anything. After a week he blocks Jake’s number just so he stops looking, hating the way it makes him feel, stomach tight, like he wants Jake to give him a reason to answer.

He wouldn’t, he knows that, and he shouldn’t anyway, because he doesn’t care what Jake says, David doesn’t trust anyone with this, and he thinks he’s right not to, since Jake opened his big fucking mouth, and David thought he’d be quiet, thought he knew he had enough to lose. But Jake’s not the smartest, and he never will be, and the thought’s mean but it’s not like it’s untrue. It probably doesn’t even occur to Jake that his ‘bros’ are the same guys who call David a pretty boy, that his stupid fucking ‘bros’ are bigmouthed mean assholes who will take any weakness they find. Maybe not Jake’s, because he’s their captain and they’re a team, because everyone seems to like Jake, but David bets the second David’s on the ice with them it’ll be used against him. 

They play the Panthers in two weeks, and the thought makes him feel physically ill. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to play a game, is dreading it, and he hates Jake for that, he _hates_ him, because hockey is the only thing that David has, and Jake’s ruining that for him, has since he won Junior gold, got drafted first, held the Calder in his palms. Won David too, not that David’s a prize, he knows he isn’t, but he didn’t realise that Jake was going to take that from him too, take away what he is, take everything that mattered and leave David like this, throwing himself headfirst into nothing because he doesn’t even know how to structure his days anymore.

He hasn’t asked Kurmazov for extra ice-time since last season, but he’s asking now, and he doesn’t like the way Kurmazov’s looking at him, tight-mouthed, concerned, but Kurmazov comes in early mornings with him, and as soon as they’re on the ice he’s the same brusque, professional presence, so David pretends he doesn’t notice the looks Kurmazov gives him when they’re off it. Kurmazov doesn’t say anything, and David has never been more grateful to anyone, he doesn’t think, than he is to Oleg Kurmazov and his silent presence, his hands nudging David into better form, the way he yawns after practice and sneaks Red Bull but is still there as early as he says he’ll be. David doesn’t know how to say it, but he is. Can’t offer him anything in return except a slightly better linemate, but Kurmazov keeps coming even though he’s got a wife and kids at home. David doesn’t understand it.

It keeps him busier, at least, but he can’t wear himself out to exhaustion every night, knows that would dry him up before the season’s even really underway, but he fills up his days as much as he can on the ice, or in the room, or even sometimes going out with the guys, at least when there’s some like Kurmazov or Brouwer there who won’t expect him to talk, but every night he ends up in a bed, either a generic hotel bed or his own, and he’s never tired enough to just fall asleep, lies there, throat tight and heart pounding, wondering why his agent hasn’t called to tell him news has leaked, whether Jake’s friend on the Canucks is going to smirk or glare or say something when they play Vancouver the next night, because Jake probably told him too. Jake’s got a buddy on every team, it seems like, all his ‘bros’, so maybe they all fucking know, and fuck, Jake thought _Taylor Benson_ was a good guy, David has no faith at all in his ability to judge character. Wonders why Benson hasn’t come up to him in the locker room, grinning meanly from ear to ear.

At some point every night he manages to fall asleep, wakes up early, dry mouthed and bleary eyed, and gets ready for another day. The Panthers game creeps closer each time he does, and on the day the Panthers come into town David wakes up feeling so sick he has a brief, dim hope that he might really be too sick to play, but he’s played with his stomach cramping up with nausea, played with a high grade fever and nearly sweat all the water out of his body, played through a broken toe and didn’t realise until after the third, the pain pushed out by adrenaline. This isn’t even close enough to scratch him, not even for the hyper-vigilant medical staff. He knows it isn’t real, that the cramping in his guts is fear and nothing else, and he hates Jake then more than he ever hated him before, squeezes his eyes tight shut until they sting, and then makes himself get out of bed, because it’s a game day, and he has a routine.

The feeling only intensifies throughout the day, and he does actually get taken aside by medical, worried because he’s pale, clammy, but they don’t find anything wrong with him because there’s nothing to find, and he’s cleared for play. 

David’s on the ice for the anthem, and so is Jake, the broad presence David would probably know with his eyes shut, but he doesn’t look at him, not once, looks instead at Jake’s linemates, his D-men, the Panthers bench, throat tight, waiting to see a smirk or a glare or anything that gives it away, but there’s nothing, not a sign from any of them, and David honestly doesn’t know what that means.

He isn’t there for the game. He’s playing, he’s playing his usual minutes, but he doesn’t feel _there_ , works on instinct and muscle memory only, the extra practices with Kurmazov probably the only reason passes are connecting. He blocks Jake out, and that’s stupid, he knows that’s stupid, that Jake’s an opponent and a viable threat, when it comes down to it, that he’s fundamentally turning his back and asking to get boarded, but it never happens. Jake, who routinely sits in the top twenty in league checks, doesn’t touch him, not once, is a blunt negative presence that acts like it’s repelled by him, and David doesn’t know what that means either, but it makes him feel small, smaller than he would if Jake, with four inches and thirty pounds on him, crushed him into the boards like he did every other time, before they knew each other, when they were fucking, because it was his job and he took it seriously.

David thinks maybe Jake isn’t there for the game either. Or maybe he’s just not there for David.

*

They win, no thanks to David, and Kurmazov tries to meet his eye in the locker room after, so David knows his non-attendance didn’t go unnoticed. He manages to slip past him, though, forehead against tile in the shower room, ignoring the guys around him, dresses facing his stall to avoid Kurmazov’s eyes and anyone expecting him to participate, not that anyone really does.

He gets out of the room before most of the team, but not Benson, apparently, who’s leaning against the wall and chatting with Jake, whose eye David accidentally catches before he can duck away. He feels frozen, caught, halfway out the room, and it takes Jake saying “David,” quiet, interrupting whatever Benson’s saying to him, before he can move again, walks stilted, quick, gets halfway down the hall before Jake says “David,” again, louder, mortifying, but Jake doesn’t follow him, and he gets down to the parking garage without incident. He’s taking a cab home, he always does, but the parking garage is limited access and Jake’s not getting down there without anyone aiding or abetting, not that David would be surprised, but it feels safer down there than open ground, neutral space, where Jake knows he can find him, and he breathes in the scent of gasoline and wills his hands to stop shaking. 

The door opens a couple minutes later, and David tucks into himself more, but it’s just Kurmazov, who walks over to the empty spot David’s standing in rather than to his own car. “Want a ride?” he asks, and David nods, small. “You okay?” he asks, after a moment, slow, like the words are heavy, and David nods again, automatic, but it gets lost somewhere, and all he can do is watch his shaking hands.

Kurmazov doesn’t say anything after that, drives in silence, just asking David for directions to his place, which he knows isn’t anywhere near Kurmazov’s suburban life, and he should have just asked him to drop him off around the corner so he could catch a cab, but he couldn’t bring himself to. It’s quiet in the car, dark, and safer than the garage.

Kurmazov is a block away from David’s when he says “Want me to beat him up?”, as quiet and serious as he says anything else, so that David doesn’t even know if it’s meant to be a joke or not, but he laughs anyway, the rough, ugly laugh he hates, has always hated, tries to bite down every time it comes out, because it tends to get people laughing at him instead of whatever was supposed to be funny.

“I don’t know if you could take him,” David finally says, honest, as Kurmazov pulls up to his apartment.

“I have my ways,” Kurmazov says, then as David’s getting out of the car. “Chapman. David.”

David turns back to look at him. 

“It’s okay,” Kurmazov says, and David doesn’t know what he’s talking about, whether it’s the game he didn’t show up for, or the early morning practices, or whether, worst of all, he’s figured it out or someone’s told him, but it makes his eyes sting regardless. David didn’t know how badly he needed to hear that until it was said.

“Thank you,” he says, quiet, and closes the door.


	4. visitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David Chapman is basically a precious baby angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a step back for a moment to retrace chronology (this is back in the summer), and fiddle with POV again. We'll return to your regularly scheduled programming shortly.

David Chapman is basically a precious baby angel. The most shy, awkward, ridiculous precious baby angel to ever exist, but the point stands.

Jake’s been hammering that point in since long before Allie knew who exactly he was dating, all gushing praise. He wouldn’t tell Allie (or Nat, or mom and dad, she checked her sources) who exactly he was dating, but the word ‘adorable’ cropped up a lot. ‘Beautiful’ enough that Allie had a freaking field day. Allie was vaguely offended at the time that he wouldn’t tell her the identity of the mystery man, and then vaguely impressed that even sibling blackmail wouldn’t pry it from him, but in hindsight, that kind of makes sense. Some ridiculous star-crossed romance with your rookie rival is probably a legit secret. 

Also Allie now realizes a lot of things about the NHL Awards night she would really rather not know, because ew. Jake is still a baby.

But seriously, David Chapman is a precious baby angel, and that opinion is absolutely cemented for Allie when Jake’s driving David in from the airport and they park in the driveway then sit in the car for a good twenty minutes, David looking freaked out and miserable while Jake does his Jake thing, which pretty much never fails to calm people down, even Allie, and she is very good at freaking out when she needs to.

He comes out eventually, trailing behind Jake like Jake can hide him, and Nat and Allie scoot away from the window so they’re not caught, get halfway to the kitchen, where mom’s cooking and dad’s chopping, before Jake comes clomping in.

David looks like a Bambi deer, or some cherubim or something, big frightened green eyes, quivering little pout, and Allie has a strong urge to tuck him in her pocket or adopt him or something. She’s heard the stories from Jake, edited, she’s sure, not just to remove David’s name but also to remove anything not safe for sisters’ ears, but she knows the kid’s a whole whack of trouble and liable to break her brother’s heart, so she doesn’t trust him more than she could throw him (not far), but she gets why Jake’s infatuated. He’s got that whole ‘rescue me’ aura that of course Jake is helpless to resist. Jake’s the patron saint of lost causes, and David Chapman’s as cute as lost causes come. 

Here’s the thing, though: Allie doesn’t like him. Allie doesn’t think she could, not when her little brother miserably ate fucking cheesecake in his underwear on the night he won an award he’d been longing for since he was a freaking baby, practically. In hindsight, Allie’s a little embarrassed she didn’t figure out the David Chapman thing earlier, but to be fair, how was she supposed to know the guy sitting miserably while Jake accepted his award was going to be determined to make Jake miserable in turn.

By all accounts, it’s not like that anymore. By all accounts, they were practically living together in Toronto, and the teenage bullshit was behind them, which is good, because they’re nearing twenty-one. Excuse Allie for not being any less concerned.

Nat’s worse, recently out of a shitty relationship that had hurt to watch, and always determined to baby Jake extra because Allie got to baby them both. Allie shakes David’s hand with a smile because she’s not _rude_ , but Nat bares her teeth. Which is sort of like a smile. Maybe it passes as nice to emotionally repressed Canadians, but Jake looks pretty embarrassed. Mom and dad are super nice, and Allie doesn’t know if that’s just them being their nice selves (okay, dad being his nice self and mom faking it for company, because she’s pretty awesome, but nice isn’t the first adjective Allie would use to describe her), or they just don’t know enough to be concerned. 

Allie knows that if her and Nat got edited stories, mom and dad _definitely_ got more edited stories, and as far as they’re aware, Allie and Nat were terrible influences who got Jake drunk enough he couldn’t come back down to the award party, not awesome sisters who got their own slices of cheesecake and curled up on a hotel bed (the uncontaminated one--Jake was stuck with his bed of shame) watching stupid rom-coms with him until he looked less miserable. And okay, maybe got him a little drunk, but he looked like he needed it. Allie’s not going to be the one to tell them otherwise. Probably, as far as mom and dad are aware, David is as much of a precious baby angel as he looks like, as Jake acts like he is.

Has Allie mentioned that she has a slight phobia of Precious Moments figurines? David looks like one of them all grown up and come to life. Precious baby angel is not really a compliment, though Jake looks pleased as anything when he corners her while David’s changing (hiding) in the guest bedroom and she tells him David looks like one. She honestly doesn’t have the heart to tell him anything else, because Nat’s practically feral right now, and Jake’s trying so hard to make David comfortable (and failing just as hard) you can see it from space. 

Mom and dad join in wholeheartedly on the ‘Let’s make David feel comfortable!’ plan, and Allie does as well, at least half-heartedly enough, because seriously, Nat’s anti-welcoming committee enough for everyone. Except basically everything seems to be a time bomb--mom asks about David’s parents, and Jake sends her frantic ‘do not engage’ looks while the kid squirms so uncomfortably that even Nat drops the intimidating glare for a minute. This also seems to be the case with his teammates, his time in Toronto this summer (though that one he just looks mortified, which sadly seems like an improvement), until dad’s intervening and Jake looks about as embarrassed as David does. Though frankly, he had plenty of time to warn them. Maybe if he hadn’t begged his boyfriend up to Huntington Woods on a whim, this wouldn’t be so awkward. Just saying.

Dad calls David Jake’s boyfriend. David and Jake both look like they want to die.

Yeah, Jake clearly needed to prepare them, because at this point, the kid’s going to explode into a flaming pile of dust in their living room, Islanders fans (are those a thing?) are going to murder them, and Nat just looks pitying.

David’s supposed to stay for the weekend. Allie is internally crying with laughter.


	5. stuck up blonde bitch

It starts as a whisper. Or quietly enough that when David picks up on it, it seems like a well-trodden subject, though he generally doesn’t listen to the shit Benson’s spouting, he’ll admit. 

It’s breakfast, and the whole team’s half-stupified with sleep after a flight to California the night before. David’s sitting with Brouwer, because Brouwer doesn’t feel the need to talk in the morning, tends to find himself a paper and ignore everyone around him, so it’s quiet and peaceful wherever he’s sitting, because most of the guys seem terrified to piss him off, and the look he gives when people interrupt his paper reading serves to mute everyone. For once there isn’t a lot of babble around their table, since practically everyone’s falling asleep into their food, which is why it rings clear when Benson, a table away, says, “Shit though, I’ve known him for years, what the fuck? I had to hear this from Erskine.” 

David tenses, listens, because he has been, admittedly, a little paranoid lately, but that seems to be well-founded, because Benson continues, says, “Like, this is Lady-Killer Lourdes, he could get any fucking girl.”

“Girls like gay guys,” Samuels says. “Maybe they figured it out. Maybe he took them home and like, gave them makeovers.”

“He had a girlfriend during the Juniors,” Benson says. “She was a bitch, but she was hot as hell, fuck, what a waste.” 

“Benson,” Brouwer says, not looking up from his paper. “Are you pissed because you thought Lourdes turned you down for a blowjob because he was straight, and now you know it’s just because you look like a shitty lay?”

Benson sputters. “What the fuck, I’m not a _homo_ ,” Benson settles on finally.

“Then shut the fuck up, I’m trying to read,” Brouwer says, and loudly turns the page. Benson and company shut up.

David exhales, looks down at his eggs, appetite gone, at the edge of nausea. He knew it wasn’t going to stay under wraps, whatever Jake said--every team’s got players like Benson, bullies with big, mean mouths, with lackeys to spur them on. He’d worry he’d been outed right along with Jake, but he knows that Benson would be gleefully throwing it in his face if he knew. Even so, he can’t finish his breakfast, clears out as fast as he can without bringing attention to himself. 

Back in his room he fiddles with his phone in shaking, clumsy hands, indecisive, before he finally types out _The Islanders know about you._. Adds _So much for trusting your team_ , but it sounds bitter, petulant. He means it, but this isn’t airing his grievances, this isn’t even communication, really. As angry as he is with Jake, Jake needs to know it’s out there, that he’s started shit. He sends the first part in the end, typing the deleted number by memory. Doesn’t unblock Jake’s number, because he’s not interested in what Jake would have to say, whether he’d stick up for his ‘bros’, or say it was good that people knew, or whatever bullshit he’d spout about David’s personal worst nightmare, or a close enough second to losing hockey.

He’s calmed down by practice--or hasn’t, but he thinks he looks calm enough, has gotten his body under control so that he doesn’t feel like he’s going to vomit on the ice, face in a flat, stern mask, at least in the mirror.

He’s under control until everyone’s gathered so they can decide on scrimmages, and Benson, practically shoulder to shoulder to him, turns to Samuels and says, “Hey, Jake's girlfriend was a stuck up blonde bitch.” 

“So?” Samuels asks, sounding bored.

“Guess we finally figured out why he was willing to hang out with Chapman,” Benson says. “Guy’s got a type.”

David feels himself go red, from the cheeks down, body hot under his gear. 

“Pay attention,” Kurmazov barks, Benson sheepishly ducking his head, and David lets himself think that maybe no one heard, maybe everyone tuned out Benson as much as they usually do, but Kurmazov meets his eye and David knows that he heard it. Knows he heard it, and he confronted David about yelling at Jake after a game, drove him home the night he couldn’t bring himself not to hide, knows there’s no way in hell Kurmazov hasn’t figured it out, because he’s not even close to stupid.

David swallows hard, drops his eyes before he can see Kurmazov look disgusted, disappointed. Controls his breathing, in, out, as even as he can make it, because if he leaves the ice now, Kurmazov isn’t going to be the only one who knows. 

Looks at the ice, scarred by skate blades, and for a second he wishes Jake was there, wishes for it so badly, because he’d have some come-back for Benson, something not even remotely ashamed, because he’d know what to say, while David bites his tongue so hard it stings. Wishes Jake was there, even if it was just to be standing shoulder to shoulder with David so David wouldn’t be shoved next to Benson, quiet now but probably with plenty still to say. Even if it was just to be there. But then the moment fades, and all he’s got left is the nausea. All he’s got left is the inability to meet anyone’s eyes.

All he’s got left is himself, and he’s used to that, but he still can’t bear to look at Kurmazov, to see what expression he’d find.


	6. master plan

Captain America’s kind of a wreck. He’s been messed up for awhile, for reasons Joe’s been told, but also pinkie sworn not to breathe a word about. But it’s kind of been obvious enough that Joe’s surprised that even those who aren’t in the pinkie swearing circle aren’t aware, if not about Chapman, than at least that NYC boyfriend is friend no more. 

The Panthers have basically been gossiping like girls since Jake admitted to having a boyfriend, and Joe can only imagine how much they’d freak if they knew their captain was nailing the most grumpy, constipated looking, admittedly gorgeous (Joe’s straight, he’s not blind) guy ever. Nailing his fucking _rival_. Or not nailing anymore, judging from the way Jake’s been acting, a little like his puppy ran away, but lately, more like his puppy _died_. But it’s not Joe’s place to talk, not to Jake, or--after basically being bullied into secrecy by the least intimidating dude in the world--anyone else, about Jake’s sad puppy look. But it’s depressing. Not just for Joe. It’s fucking with the team. 

Joe kind of hopes that going to play the Islanders will help, because Jake is basically the most impossible person to say no to ever. Joe’d be pissed about his powerful magic ability if Jake didn’t seem like he had no idea he had it. Hell, he’s still sort of pissed. But mostly he’s expecting Jake to come back beaming and being gross and mushy like usual, and then Joe can go home and cuddle with his dog and feel depressed and single and inferior, because Jake is a human highlighter and his happiness is impossible to ignore. Awesome for team, awesome for Jake. Joe genuinely wants him to come back that way, even that means dog cuddling is in his future.

Jake doesn’t. Jake comes back tight-mouthed and sad looking, and Joe would go find Chapman and shake him, but he’s been banned from even _looking_ at him, so Joe figures shaking would probably not be allowed. Parent takes Jake aside, which is kind of a relief, because Parent’s in the super special sharing circle, so Joe’s going to leave captain motivation to him. Not that Joe isn’t willing to do it, but man, he is not good at talking, and Jake looks like a depressed, depressed man. 

Captain motivation from Parent clearly fails. When they call a kid up from the farm team, Jake uncharacteristically doesn’t join the pranking, not even half-heartedly. Rookies are looking alarmed. Joe’s _feeling_ alarmed. Jake is the most consistently cheerful person in the world. A tragic Captain America upsets the whole team. 

Joe calls an emergency meeting with the pinkie swear club, holed up in Joe’s room while most of the team goes out and Jake is off being tragic in his own room. 

“Ideas?” Joe asks, after a brief and unnecessary summary of the situation, because Parent and Gallagher both know exactly what’s happening, and exactly how much it’s fucking with what little mojo the Panthers have, mostly gathered when Jake took the C.

“We cannot beat Chapman up,” Parent says, sounding sad about it.

“Nope,” Joe agrees. “I think Lourdey would kill us before we even got in range.”

“Have you seen the Parent Trap?” Gallagher asks.

“No,” Joe says. “Whatever you’re thinking, no.”

Gallagher sulks for a minute while they think. “Lourdey needs to get laid,” he says finally.

Joe thinks about it. “Yeah,” he says, finally. “Go put something decent on, we’re taking Cap out.”

“I’m comfortable,” Parent grumbles, curled up in the chair beside Joe’s bed in sweats and a stretched out Panthers shirt, but he gets up with Gallagher and goes to get dressed, leaving Joe with the less than fun job of convincing Jake to go out. 

Joe knocks a couple times. There’s no answer, but Joe knows he’s been basically a hermit since the Chapman thing, so bets are he’s inside. “You should know I scammed a room key from the desk,” Joe says loudly. “Just if you’re eating ice cream in your underwear or something.”

It’s a total lie, but it works, because Jake opens the door after that, thankfully not in his underwear, and with no ice cream in sight, but with the ever present phone in his hand. He’s always been surgically attached to it, but now it’s like an extra limb.

“Anything?” Joe asks, nodding his head towards the phone.

“Yeah,” Jake says, and Joe has a moment of tentative hope, before he continues. “He texted to tell me the Islanders know I’m out, so probably half the league does by now. He’s not answering any of my texts, but hey, at least he still gives enough of a shit to warn me.” He laughs, and it sounds rusty. 

Joe wishes they could do Parent’s plan, he really does. That or throw that damned phone into the ocean. “You’re coming out with us,” he says.

“Sorry man,” Jake says. “I’m not really feeling it tonight.”

“Not a choice,” Joe says. “The rookies are freaked out. You’ve barely spoken to New Guy. He probably thinks you’re one of those captains that doesn’t bother with team bonding shit.” 

It’s manipulative, but it works. Jake winces. “I’ll get dressed,” he says, and Joe loiters in the hallway while he does, fully prepared to start banging on the door if they don’t have a fully dressed captain in five minutes.

Jake’s out in three, not exactly dolled up or anything, but his shirt looks clean, at least, and his sweats have been replaced by jeans. Parent and Gallagher are down in the lobby, and when they meet up with them, Jake looks faintly suspicious, but he follows them peacefully, slotting himself in a booth with the rookies when they catch up with the group. The rookies look overjoyed.

Joe goes to get drinks, because lord knows Lourdes (hah) needs one, and so do the rest of them after dealing with him being miserable. There’s a girl with wavy dark hair already at the bar, red lipstick, jeans that look painted on by a fucking _artist_ , and Joe forgets the mission for a minute, orders the drinks and tries to casually wander over. She meets his eye before he gets all the way there, mouth quirking like she knows exactly what he’s doing. Joe will one day learn to be smooth. One day. Not today, apparently.

“Hi,” Joe says. “I’m Joe.”

Very smooth.

Her mouth quirks more. “Alexis,” she says. 

_Don’t tell her that’s a pretty name,_ Joe’s brain begs. “That’s a pretty name,” Joe says, and kind of wants to drown himself. “Could I--uh, what are you drinking? Could I buy you one?”

“Vodka bar lime,” she says. “But I’m kind of here with my brother?”

“Oh,” Joe says, defeated, and the bartender brings the pitchers over like a sign to book it.

“His boyfriend just dumped him,” she says. “So--pity party night.”

Joe thinks quickly. She didn’t recognize him, hasn’t even glanced at their table, and they’re in Washington, where they tend to fly under the radar. “My friend too,” he says. “Boyfriend dumped him. We’re trying to get him laid so he stops looking so depressed.”

She laughs. “That’s basically my secret plan. Which one’s he?”

Joe points Jake out, and she looks considering. Which like, Jake’s a good looking dude, objectively. Probably attractive to gay guys, considering he had a boyfriend. “Okay,” she says. “If you introduce them, you can buy me a drink.”

“Awesome,” Joe says.

The booth’s cleared out a bit by the time they get over, some loud argument building at the pool table drawing the guys in, so when Joe walks over with Alexis and Grant, who isn’t Chapman level, maybe, but Joe thinks probably not bad, there’s room enough to sit, especially when Gallagher’s eyes light up in realization and he makes room for Grant to scoot in beside Jake. Joe does, indeed, introduce them, and Jake’s his nice, friendly self, so Joe crosses his fingers and hopes for the best, mostly pays attention to Alexis, who is kind of dryly hilarious, and did Joe mention the _jeans?_ He sneaks peeks over occasionally, Alexis doing it too, and they report back progress, which looks like a thumbs up. Joe even goes as far as to give a questioning looking Parent one from across the room.

But Joe has to take a leak after awhile, and when he gets back, there’s no Lourdey.

“Said he wanted to have an early night,” Grant says with a shrug, and Joe internally groans. Alexis, no surprise, heads out with her brother in the end, and it’s not like Joe knows whether or not something would have actually happened with her if she hadn’t had to babysit her brother, but. He’s still kind of grumpy about it. 

The grumpiness lingers into the next morning, Joe savagely chewing his toast, because he’s just trying to _help_ , and Lourdey’s not being _help-able_. 

Jake sits down across from him with his own plate of food while Joe’s mid-bite. 

“I know what you were doing,” Jake says, and Joe swallows his toast, tries to look confused.

“I appreciate it and all,” Jake continues. “Just. Don’t, okay? I don’t want--just don’t.”

“Okay,” Joe says, “Cool, message received.”

He’s reconsidering Gallagher’s Parent Trap idea. Desperate fucking times, man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV is Joe Forster, who has very briefly made an appearance in same ficlet that introduced Ulf's rookie.


	7. shuffling steps

David doesn’t know what he’s supposed to expect after Benson runs his mouth. Whether Benson’s going to put it together, realise that maybe Jake did only hang out with ‘the pretty boy’ because of that fact. That he’ll stop cracking jokes and start throwing barbs, though those are usually the same thing from him. Kurmazov knows, that’s clear enough, even when he doesn’t indicate anything for the rest of the trip, doesn’t take David aside or anything, doesn’t catch David’s eyes, though admittedly David’s doing everything possible to avoid meeting his, which is hard when they’re on a line together.

They return to New York, and David has gathered a thousand possibilities to him by that point. That Benson will find the perfect weapon to use against him. That Kurmazov will cancel the extra practices. That he’ll tell management, that David will be taken aside, chewed out for being unprofessional enough to sleep with a fucking opponent, which he can’t believe he has been. That news of Jake hits the media and starts a shitstorm like when Lapointe came out. That news of _David_ does. 

He lives with constant uneasy nausea, shitty nights of sleep, a stone in his stomach, and he misses Jake all the time, which pisses him off, because he didn’t know you could hate someone and still want them around. That you could never want to see someone again but still wish they were sleeping beside you, throwing off too much body heat, wrapped around you with sleep heavy limbs that left you trapped under their body and feeling anything but trapped. 

Jerks off in the shower, thinking about Jake even when he tries to leave things undefined, think of just bodies, anonymously male. Hates himself for his lack of self-control, for knowing better and still having done it, for knowing better and still wanting it. Hates himself. 

*

Second day back, and David’s supposed to meet Kurmazov before practice, scheduling settled long before that awful trip, but the idea of showing up there to a dark arena, sitting around until people start filling in, fills him with so much dread that when his alarm goes off, he hits snooze, keeps doing it until he’s nudging on late.

A couple of the guys are there when he gets in, including Kurmazov, fully dressed for practice, who walks across the room when David starts dressing, stands close enough that David has to look up at him, as reluctant as he is to do it.

“Where were you?” Kurmazov asks. “I came early.”

David blinks at him. “I thought you weren’t going to show up,” he says honestly.

Kurmazov looks furious for a minute, enough that it makes David want to recoil, before his face settles back into unflappable Kurmazov again. “Excuses,” he says. “You were just lazy.”

“Lazy,” David sputters. It’s not something he’s ever been accused of. 

“Lazy,” Kurmazov repeats, then, “Come next time.” It’s not a request.

“Okay,” David says, because ‘thank you’, isn’t the appropriate response. 

Kurmazov mutters something under his breath, but David suspects it’s in Russian so he doesn’t have a hope in hell of catching it. He’s sure it isn’t nice, but that’s fine, because Kurmazov showed up. He showed up, and he wants David to show up too, so he can say anything he wants to David, David won’t mind. He can call him lazy, he can call him whatever untrue thing he wants, just as long as he doesn’t mention the truth. 

Practice is fine. David doesn’t know if Benson’s still shooting his mouth off, avoids him as much as he can without making it a thing, though it’s not like anyone on the team doesn’t know that David and Benson don’t like each other much. At the end, his right shoulder’s throbbing from a hit that Brouwer threw in a friendly scrimmage. It didn’t feel friendly, but he knows the way Brouwer plays. Brouwer’s recently back from a suspension for flattening some Senators rookie who didn’t know well enough to get out of his way. It probably was as friendly a hit as Brouwer could throw.

He tries to roll the ache out as subtly as he can, but Brouwer clapping a rough hand over his shoulder--the left, thankfully--means he was probably caught. “Don’t hunch when you’re against the boards,” Brouwer says. “You’re a small enough target as it is.”

“I was trying to get the puck,” David says, exasperated. “I had to _find_ it.”

“I pulled my check,” Brouwer says. David figured, but it doesn’t feel like it. “No one else is gonna. Stop flinching, you make it too fucking easy.”

David doesn’t know if he means on the ice or not, considering David flinched the second Brouwer’s hand landed on his shoulder. He thinks that’s a reasonable response to him, though. 

“Thanks?” David says, finally.

“Team’s shit enough without you getting your ass injured,” Brouwer says, low enough that only David hears. It’s the truth, but it’s not exactly something anyone on the roster should be saying. “You’re never going to throw a decent hit, but you need to learn to take them.”

“You offering?” David asks.

Brouwer shrugs. “You ever feel like getting beat up, I’m game. Go get a massage.”

David doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting he probably needs one, but the twinge has settled into a low ache that’ll make him stiff if he doesn’t tend to it. “Whatever, grandpa,” David says, cautiously setting on the nickname he’s heard thrown around the room, the team young enough that anyone over thirty feels ancient.

“You need to learn to chirp too,” Brouwer says, and wanders off before David can figure out a way to come back from that one.

*

David continues the extra practices with Kurmazov, who continues not to say anything about what he knows. Takes up on Brouwer’s offer when they have a four day lull between games, which leads to Brouwer looking sort of satisfyingly surprised, and then leaves every muscle in David’s body aching. Agrees to come out when Eisler asks, which he regrets when Eisler hugs his already sore body with that crushing grip he always has, then pats him on the head like a dog.

Waits for the hammer to drop, and when it doesn’t, he breathes just a little easier, but he’s still scared.


	8. morning coffee

It's seven in the morning on a Saturday when Jake wakes up to David's alarm chirping from the other side of the bed. David doesn't move an inch, just keeps sleeping through it, and Jake reaches over him as sneakily as he can, manages to turn it off, giving himself a little fist bump when David sleeps through that as well.

He tries to go back to sleep, because it's a weekend, and they don't have camp, and it's seven in the freaking morning. Tucks his face up against David's neck, the short hairs soft and ticklish, shuts his eyes. It doesn't work, even if it's nice just being there, David breathing slow and even, belly shifting under Jake's hand. Jake's fine with staying there for a little while, but eventually he gets restless, not very good at staying still, and he doesn't want to wake David up if he can help it.

He pulls back, reluctant, goes to take a shower. David still hasn't moved when he comes back to grab a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, other than to bury his face in his pillow. Jake dresses as quietly as he can, grabs his phone and heads to the kitchen.

 _Good morning :) :) :)_ he texts on his way, sends it to his sisters, a couple of the guys.

 _I don't even want to know._ , he receives about ten seconds later from Gabe, _Tell me nothing_

Jake snorts. _i like ur city_ , he types, one-handed, while he grabs the milk carton out of the fridge.

 _It doesn't like you_ , he gets back, _Quit holing up in your gross love den and hang out with me, or get out of my city._

 _jays tmrw?_ Jake types out. David's probably going to go to the gym or something else completely unnecessary for a weekend, and Jake doesn't really want to kick around watching TV on one of his days off. 

_Cool, you're buying._

Jake does, buys four tickets while he's eating his cereal, because David probably won't want to come, and Gabe's little lady hates Jake, but hey, optimism. People tend to tell Jake he has it. 

After cereal is Sportsnet and considering making a real breakfast, because he's got a dozen eggs and a loaf of bread and he thinks some sausage Richie left in the freezer, and David will be way less grumpy about getting to sleep in if Jake breaks it to him with breakfast. But David's pretty hard to separate from his crazy morning smoothies, and there are like, fifteen ingredients and a whole order to it, and Jake will forget the chia seeds or add them too early or something and David will look at him like he is the most disappointing human ever, so. Sportsnet. More cereal. Maybe a banana.

Nat sends him a text telling him he is horrible and pathetic, and Jake frowns into his banana before snapchatting her a picture of his middle finger, and figures it's probably time he wakes up David. Jake kind of wants to let him keep sleeping, because it's a weekend, and that's the normal thing to do, but he knows David's going to be pissed if Jake lets him sleep in too late, so he crawls back into bed, curls up against David. David shifts back into him, and Jake tucks his nose against the back of his neck. “David,” he says, and when he doesn't receive a response, “Dave.”

David groans a little, like Jake just saying his name wrong is enough to wake him up, which. Jake wouldn't be surprised. 

David is kind of the worst person ever at mornings, and learning that basically doomed Jake for good. David always seems like he's been up since five in the morning at practices, and possibly sleeps standing up and with his eyes open, but now Jake knows he sets his alarm at ridiculous hours just so he can hit snooze a bunch, and stumbles around with his eyes half shut until he takes a morning shower, which seems to be the only way he can wake up. He comes out dripping and cold because he turns the hot water off for the last minute like a total freak, but since he pretty much flat out refuses coffee, Jake guesses that's what works instead.

“Time is it?” David mumbles, pulling away from Jake slightly, because he's only cuddly when he's sleeping.

“Eight thirty,” Jake says, and isn't really surprised when David pulls back more, tries to sit up. Jake holds him tighter. 

“What happened to my alarm?” David asks, trying to squirm away and then giving up when Jake doesn't let him.

“It's Saturday,” Jake says.

“I have to go to the gym,” David says. 

“It's Saturday,” Jake repeats, and when that doesn't seem to work, “You really, really don't.” He loosens his grip just enough so that David can turn in his arms, eyes in slits, hair sticking up all over, glaring at him. It is cute like a kitten, but Jake will never tell him that. He told Allie, and she made vomiting noises. David would probably dump him. “Stay in bed with me,” he tries hopefully.

“I'm late,” David says.

Jake rolls his eyes, leans in to kiss him. David kisses back, sleepy, before he pulls away. “I haven't brushed my teeth.”

“Don't care,” Jake says, and leans in to kiss him again. 

David turns his head. “Let me brush my teeth first.”

“Nope,” Jake says cheerfully. David will brush his teeth, and then he'll take his weird cold shower, and then he'll probably run off to the gym and instead of spending Sunday flicking through TV channels, he'll spend Saturday doing it. No go.

“I'm gross,” David says, almost in a whine.

“Nah,” Jake says, and rubs his nose against David's cheekbone, presses a kiss there, against his jaw, tries for his mouth, but gets his jaw again instead. That's cool, because he has a plan now, mouth brushing against David's throat, the worn soft fabric of his t-shirt, something that's probably stuck around since Juniors, since it's got the word Remparts on it, and Jake is pretty sure that doesn't mean anything but David's junior hockey team.

David breathes in sharply when Jake shifts down, sucking in his stomach under Jake's mouth.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“C'mon,” Jake says. “You're a smart dude, figure it out.”

“Let me take a shower,” David says, not sounding very firm about it.

“Nope, you're stuck here,” Jake says, and David makes a complaining sound, but helpfully lifts his hips as Jake tug his briefs off, so Jake isn't buying it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarifying point, because there's been some confusion: this takes place during the offseason, so precedes the first part of this series chronologically.


	9. fulfilling expectation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants--he needs--to text Jake, to take it back, hoard him jealously to himself. To call his mom and ask what he’s supposed to do with this feeling, tight in his chest, because he has no idea. But Jake lost his trust, and his mom hasn’t had it in all the time David’s known the meaning of the word.

David has a google alert for Jake. It’s something he’s had since before they were--before they were anything--had when he hated the sight of Jake, when every update made him nauseous, Jake outdoing him at something again. He’s not proud of it, not even remotely, and he probably should have stopped when they stopped, but it’s the only updates he’s getting other than secondhand from Benson’s weaselly mouth.

He wonders if calling Benson a weasel would be a good chirp, or whether it’d just make him sound bitter. Wonders if he cares, right now, because it’s not like Benson isn’t one. It may not even blow back, because one of Benson’s asshole friends got sent down, so he doesn’t even have a full posse right now, and David thinks Kurmazov has his back, Eisler. Even Brouwer, maybe, just because Brouwer seems to find Benson annoying, or even more annoying than everyone else. David can’t think of any time it’s been like that--there’ve always been Bensons on his team, he doubts there’s a hockey team in the world that doesn’t have someone like him, but he hasn’t had the other side of it, not really, not the early practices and the crushing hugs off the ice and getting checked for his own good so hard his entire body’s bruised.

But Benson isn’t the point of this, even though David bets he’d have something to say about the latest update, bets Benson _will_. It’s some site that follows hockey players’ romantic lives and is inexplicably popular considering it has nothing to do with actual hockey. Jake’s showed up on it before, once with a picture of his sister, which David derisively snorted at, but maybe shouldn’t have, because he made the same mistake. They retracted that one pretty quick. A couple of times when they were rookies and the hockey world was obsessed with him, pretty girls he had an arm around, only up to his chin even in heels. David has no idea if he was fucking them. He doesn’t care.

This is another like that, maybe a little more compromising, a cute blonde sitting in his lap at some generic club booth, mouth pressed against his. It’s recent--his hair’s short, and he kept it kind of long until recently, despite David making fun of it, slightly defensively, because maybe otherwise Jake would notice how often David gravitated toward it, sunk his fingers in it, silky under his fingers. He probably did anyway, seemed to notice everything about David, no matter how hard David tried. He looks older with his hair short, looks their age, and David liked the look of it better but was still disappointed the first time they saw one another after Jake cut it.

She doesn’t look nice. That’s a stupid thought, but that’s David’s knee-jerk response. She looks like the kind of girl David would have assumed Jake wanted back when they were rookies, back when he thought Jake was the kind of guy Taylor Benson was--smug, self-congratulatory, _mean_. For all David knows she could rescue puppies, but all he can think of is what Benson said, _stuck up blonde bitch_ , and wonders if that’s what she is. If that’s what _he_ is.

Remembers what he told Jake, that he should find a girlfriend or boyfriend he could talk about, and she’s probably it, she’s the definition of it, hot enough that there’ll be high-fives and jealousy, admiration for bagging a ‘catch’. David knows how it is, has watched it secondhand enough times to memorise it. It’s not surprising Jake did it, or did so quickly. Jake was always good at taking direction, had no real ideas of his own.

The thought’s uncharitable, and it’s not true, but he holds onto it. He wants--he needs--to text Jake, to take it back, hoard him jealously to himself. To call his mom and ask what he’s supposed to do with this feeling, tight in his chest, because he has no idea. But Jake lost his trust, and his mom hasn’t had it in all the time David’s known the meaning of the word. 

Instead, he texts Brouwer, asking if he’s around for another checking practice. Goes to take a shower just to get away from his phone, so he doesn’t keep staring at the way Jake’s got his hand on that girl’s hip, half steadying, half proprietary.

When he comes out his phone’s blinking, and he doesn’t know what he expected, but he shouldn’t feel disappointed to just see a response from Brouwer, _We have a game tomorrow, imbecile._ and then _Meet you in an hour?_

_Yeah._ , David types back, one handed, then goes to get dressed to get beat up.


	10. picking fights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapman’s problems start with Jacob and end with Lourdes, but Mike emphatically does not want to know. In Mike’s day it was awkward handjobs in juniors and oaths of secrecy, the occasional hook-up with a civilian, but maybe he’s old-fashioned. Who the fuck knows what the kids do now.

Mike was supposed to be off schedule. He isn’t a hermit, he’s perfectly willing to go out and drink with the guys if there’s a team gathering, will reluctantly do some of the publicist mandated bullshit, if only because she’s reached scary fanaticism in her quest to make the franchise the first thing people think about when they think about New York hockey. It’s a doomed proposition, but Mike doesn’t have a fucking death wish, so there’s no way he’s expressing that to her.

The point is he does team shit, even when he doesn’t strictly have to, but tonight was supposed to be an off night. Mike has a new book and everything. Mike is honestly kind of excited about getting to read a book without blocking out the yammering of twenty plus grown and half grown men.

He gets two whole chapters in before he’s got a text from Chapman, asking for checking practice. The last time they did it there were days off in between games and Chapman still looked a little wrung out on game day, and this time they’ve got a game in twenty-four hours. This is as fucking obvious as the examples in the ‘this is a cry for help!’ bullshit videos he had to watch in school. Not alcohol, not drugs, but that’s no surprise, not with that kid, so intent on being perfect he practically vibrates out of his skin. 

Getting the shit beat out of him the night before a game is a handicap, not an advantage, but Mike isn’t his therapist or his priest, and the kid needs to learn how to bounce back, so he isn’t asking questions, just accedes, looks longingly at his book, thinks longingly of the beer in the fridge, a microbrew he’d been recommended by a hook-up who seemed to know her shit.

He meets Chapman at the practice facility, and sure enough he’s strung tight with tension, enough that he’s going to take a hit bad and Mike’s going to be responsible for killing the last hopes of the season and then he will be fucking fired. 

“Loosen up or we’re not fucking doing this,” Mike says, and Chapman stares intensely at him (Mike thinks it’s supposed to be a glower but it doesn’t have the strength behind it) before going to stretch.

He’s moderately better after, at least enough that Mike isn’t afraid he’s going to hunch his shoulders to his ears the first time Mike taps him, but he still keeps the hits easy, figures it’s important for Chapman to keep his balance after the unfinished hits as to learn to take the kind that Mike and his ilk will dole. There’s at least one of those on every team, but for everyone that can finish a check that hard, there are a dozen whose checks feel like a light breeze. For Mike, to be fair, and he’s got four inches and forty pounds on Chapman, so it’s probably not the same.

He can pull them all he wants, but sometimes that’s not quite enough. He miscalculates, and Chapman goes sprawling after a high open ice check. Mike peels his glove off with his teeth, gives him a hand up. 

“We’re done,” Mike says. 

“What?” Chapman asks. “No, let’s keep going.”

“Nope,” Mike says. “I’m heading home. You can do what you like, make sure you turn the lights off when you leave.”

“You went easy on me,” Chapman hisses, vicious, a yappy little dog who might learn to bite someday. Right now he’s all blunted teeth.

“We have a game tomorrow,” Mike says. He’s not interested in injuring a first liner. Despite appearances, he does actually want his team to win the game.

“I don’t want you to go easy on me,” Chapman says, stubborn jut of jaw, and for a second Mike wants to ruffle his hair and tell him that the press is a monster he has no business listening to. The feeling fades.

“Tough shit,” Mike says.

Chapman sulks for about ten seconds before he reaches out and shoves Mike. The only reason Mike moves is because there’s no friction, and he wasn’t expecting Mr. So Mature, Seriously Guys, I Am A Grown-up to resort to playground tactics. See: hits like a light breeze.

“Did you just shove me?” Mike asks disbelievingly.

“Yes,” Chapman says, with an air of ‘what are you going to do about it?’ 

Mike bursts out laughing.

Chapman’s stomped halfway down the hall before Mike can stop laughing, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. His ribs hurt. “No, hey kid,” he calls after him. “Good work, very tough.”

Chapman ignores him and goes into the room. Mike has the feeling that he’s giving him the finger with his mind but has returned to the All Serious, All The Time program.

Mike chuckles to himself again before he follows Chapman off the ice.

*

The next morning Chapman scowls at Mike a little in practice, and Mike tries not to let his lips twitch, because he doesn’t want to encourage a snit. Chapman’s already mostly there without Mike’s help, because him and Benson are playing a familiar game, the one where Chapman tries to avoid Benson, and Benson tries to get close enough he can say mean shit and subsequently pretend he wasn’t saying it to _Chapman_ , who me, Captain? Benson’s a high school bully who never grew out of it, and of course he’s made Chapman his target, because Chapman’s quiet and won’t fight back, and more importantly because Chapman has more talent on his worst day than Benson has on his best.

Mike’s close enough to overhear Benson go straight into some shit about the Panthers. No points for creativity, but he’s nailed the thing that gets under Chapman’s skin. Mike rolls his eyes at Kurmazov, hovering slightly protectively around Chapman, who quirks his mouth like he’s too mature for eye-rolling, but is tempted to do it anyway. Fucking infants. 

Chapman’s problems start with Jacob and end with Lourdes, but Mike emphatically does not want to know. In Mike’s day it was awkward handjobs in juniors and oaths of secrecy, the occasional hook-up with a civilian, but maybe he’s old-fashioned. Who the fuck knows what the kids do now. Other than pine tragically, obvious enough the team shitheads have picked up on it, and Mike routinely shares longsuffering looks with everyone thirty plus, because no one signed up for babysitting, and pretty much everyone else has their own kids to look after at home. Thank fucking god Mike can actually get a break from the drama. Kurmazov’s eye has started twitching periodically. Mike’s waiting for him to snap and kill everyone. He has an escape plan in that eventuality. He’ll use Benson as a human shield.

Mike waits for the next instruction and thinks about peace and fucking solitude.

“Oh fuck you,” Chapman says, loud enough that everyone stops like the record’s skipped. Even Benson looks shocked. 

“Language,” Assistant Coach Bailey says dryly, and Chapman, mottled red with anger, nods stiffly, mumbles what’s probably an apology.

Eisler skates over to Mike. “The fuck did Benson say?” he asks.

“Eisler,” Mike says flatly. “Do we give a shit?”

“I didn’t know Chappy swore,” Eisler says in a faux-whisper, and Mike snorts.

“Yeah, the kid’s out of control,” Mike says dryly, but looking at him, head ducked down but body still tensed for a fight, he thinks he actually might be.


	11. the master plan of gallagher

David can't stop thinking about the girl in the picture. What her name is. Where Jake met her, how many times he's seen her, whether he tucks himself up behind her. In bed, Jake practically blankets David, and she's so much smaller than David that Jake's bulk would swallow her.

Wonders if she’s experienced, if Jake laughs at what he settled with. If he laughs about it with her, because obviously he has no problem telling everyone about David. Though no, probably not, it’d make him sound gay, and Jake always has that to fall back on, maybe dating a guy for a bit, but there are always going to be pictures of girls all over him. David doesn’t have that luxury.

If Jake fucks her. Probably. If Jake fucks her up the ass. The one time Jake brought it up with him David had turned him down flat. If Jake's only got eyes for her, if he's moved on, if he's going to be one more in a ridiculous fucking line of players who get married as soon as they hit drinking age.

It makes him sick.

*

David needs to keep his head in the game. That's the only thing he can focus on, because they're still not playing well enough to be in contention, and he's tired of short seasons, tired of a team that can't string wins together, that crumble under pressure, hold a lead and then let it snap. Tired of their lacklustre penalty kill, tired of one goal games, and that's something he can fix, or at least make a difference in.

Thursday's optional practice, and there aren't as many people in the room as David would like when him and Kurmazov return to the room after their pre-practice, definitely considering how much help most of them could get. Practice is short because of that, maybe, David hopes it's that and not that the coaches care as little as the guys who didn't bother to show up. By the time it's wrapping up, even Kurmazov shuffling off the ice, David barely feels warmed up.

Sorenson just got called up, so he's willing to tool around with David after, let's David take slapshots on him, work on the backhand that he's still dissatisfied with, but even he packs up, mumbling something about not being able to afford any more bruises, which is okay, as far as excuses go, especially since David got him with a stinger earlier, or figures, since there was a lot of swearing coming from behind the mask.

David works with the empty net after he's gone, stands at the blueline, tells himself where he wants it to go. Blueline one-timers aren't ever going to be his speciality, but he can't be useless from there, can't have any blindspot on the ice.

He feels something on the back of his neck after awhile, and turns to find Kurmazov standing by the door, arms crossed. 

“Get off the ice, David,” Kurmazov says.

“I’m fine,” David says. “I’ve got more gas in the tank.”

“Not a request,” Kurmazov says.

David rolls his eyes, but packs up the remaining pucks, skates over to the doors. He doesn’t feel tired, not really, and he needs a cooldown anyway, so he can just head to the workout room, which will be quiet by now.

“Go home,” Kurmazov says, flat command, like if David heads to work out he’ll physically bar his way.

“They barely let us practice,” David says, once Kurmazov has practically escorted him to the dressing room, hovering behind him. “What was the point?”

“I don’t want you at the next practice,” Kurmazov says flatly.

“What?” David asks. “I’ll be good to go.”

“Again,” Kurmazov says, “not a request.”

“What are you going to do, bench me? You don’t have the authority to keep me off the ice,” David scoffs. Looking at Kurmazov’s expression,  he immediately regrets it, but it’s not like he can take it back.

“Go home, Chapman,” Kurmazov says, finally, not looking at him, leaves David in the room with a pit in his stomach. 

He's wrung out when he gets home, dimly aching, like he pushed himself too hard, like he'll be stiff and sore tomorrow. He takes a longer nap than he means to, orders in because he doesn't have the energy to go shopping, and his fridge is mostly empty, the way he tries not to let himself get it. Curls up and watches the week's highlights, doesn't linger on a pass of Jake's that he can practically feel, tape to tape, a perfect outlet and then a gorgeous goal. 

He ends up falling asleep in front of the TV and wakes up at one in the morning to his phone buzzing in his pocket. He feels as sore as he might have guessed, the couch doing no favours to his back, and pulls his phone out because if someone's calling it has to be important. At any time, but especially now.

He doesn’t recognize the area code, so he answers with a cautious hello.

“Hi,” he hears, dim around a ton of background noise, a loud bar. Still recognizable. David swallows hard. “I stole Gallagher’s phone, I don’t think he noticed,” Jake says. “He’s pretty wasted.”

Jake doesn’t exactly sound sober himself.

“Why are you calling?” David asks, because he isn't sure what else to say.

“I miss you so fucking much,” Jake says, almost overlapping David's question. “It's fucking crazy how much I miss you.”

David inhales, exhales. Tries, at least. “You seem to have moved on,” he says coolly.

“Huh?” Jake asks. 

“That girl,” David says, and he doesn't like the venom he says it with, doesn't like himself for it, doesn't like that Jake can probably hear it loud and clear, that it's obvious. 

“Who?” Jake asks, and David doesn't know whether to feel relieved or disgusted. Settles on the second because it's easier. Ignores any tendrils of the first.

“There's a picture,” David says. “She's all over you.”

Jake barks out a laugh. “That. Yeah, no. You really don’t need to worry about that.”

“I wasn’t worried,” David snaps, knee-jerk.

Jake's quiet for a second. “I'm really sorry,” he says. “About—I'm really sorry I told people. Not about me, I needed to tell them about me, but. I'm sorry I told them about you.”

David squeezes his eyes shut. Keeps focusing on the inhale, exhale, because they're coming short and fast.

“I know you're screening my calls,” Jake says. “I just had to say that. Because I'm really fucking sorry. And I don't deserve anything from you or whatever, but I wanted you to know. So. Yeah.”

“Okay,” David manages, small.

“Okay,” Jake says. “So I'm going to go now because I'm about to cry in public and then I will be chirped forever, but. You know. I'm kind of rambling here, but I wanted you to know I was sorry, and I am kind of crazy in love with you, and can someone please take this fucking phone away from me, Jesus--”

Presumably, someone does, because the call goes dead, and David's left staring into the dark, hand clenched around his phone, because what. There were about fifteen things for David to process in the last minute, and he can't even start. He puts himself to bed instead.

He doesn't fall asleep until morning.


	12. the master plan of gallagher (ii)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I'm like maybe tipsy,” Jake argues.
> 
> “You like maybe just told your ex you were crazy in love with him and then cried all over my shoulder,” Joe says. “So I'm like maybe going to take you home.”

They get a W, and Jake lets Gally drag him out, because he had a two point night, Parent got into a rare fist fight and flattened the guy, and Gally scored a goal off his butt and is proudly telling everyone about it. It feels like the kind of night to celebrate.

Jake's been maybe kind of half-assed about hanging out lately, and he knows it, but he tries not to be tonight, might stick around the booth instead of wandering everywhere, but there's a rotating group of the guys hanging around, and someone has to keep an eye on Gallagher, who's insisted on everyone buying him a celebratory shot, and doesn't seem to plan on sharing them.

“Dude, slow down,” Jake says, because Gallagher's miles ahead of him and Jake hasn't been slacking, and Gally gives him a look that tells him what a buzzkill he is, and then he gets up, weaving his way to the bathroom. He's left his phone on the table, and Jake pockets it so it doesn't get lost, forgets about it for awhile, until it's a little later, the crowd thinned out some, and he's had a couple more. The point of the night where he wants to call David, but usually doesn't. Gets a voicemail when he does, because David's either screening him or blocked him, and Gallagher's phone's heavy in his pocket.

He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't, because he's had enough to feel it, but he hasn't heard anything from David in months, other than the message telling him that the Isles knew about him. Total silence since, and it's totally David's right, Jake was the asshole in this situation, he's been told that enough times that it stuck, but he hasn't even gotten to apologize, and David deserves that, clearly.

He looks toward the bar, where Gally's leaning heavily on Larsson, and takes Gally's phone out, punches in David's number after a moment of hesitating. David answers after a few rings, a quiet hello, and Jake feels kind of winded, like he's been punched in the gut.

“Hi,” he manages, pauses, unsure what to say now, even though he had a whole script. He literally wrote himself a script, and now it's all gone. “I stole Gallagher's phone, I don't think he noticed,” he says instead of like, fifteen other starters he's thought of. “He's pretty wasted.”

There's a quiet second where Jake bets he'd be able to hear David breathing on the other end if the bar wasn't so freaking loud. “Why are you calling?” David asks, doesn't even get the whole thing out before Jake blurts “I miss you so fucking much, it's fucking crazy how much I miss you.”

He can feel his cheeks go red, embarrassed, looks around the table, but there's only J and Parey, one on either side of the booth, and neither one's looking at him. They can probably hear him, but at least they're pretending they can't, and they're guarding the booth. They're good As. They'll let Jake embarrass himself, but not in front of anyone else.

“You seem to have moved on,” David says flatly.

“Huh?” Jake asks. No one with eyes could think Jake has moved on. Jake has—whatever the opposite is. Not moved on. Jake has seriously not moved on.

“That girl,” David snaps.

Jake frowns. “Who?” he asks.

“There's a picture. She's all over you.” It sounds mostly neutral, or it would if Jake didn't know David better. He's pissed.

Jake thinks, then laughs after a moment. Joe's continuing failed adventures in trying to get Jake laid whether he feels like it or not have had varying levels in success, and that was about as far as things got. The next morning Joe had looked at him tragically, which was kind of rich seeing as she'd gone home with Joe instead. “That,” he says. “Yeah, no. You really don't need to worry about that.”

“I wasn't worried,” David snaps, defensive, and Jake is almost blinded with how fond he is of David and his complete allergy to admitting he has feelings.

“I'm really sorry,” he says, finally, because he's pretty much destroyed the script, but that's the thing he needs to say, needs David to know. “About—I'm really sorry I told people. Not about me, I need to tell them about me, but. I'm sorry I told them about you.”

David's quiet, but at least he hasn't hung up on him.

“I know you're screening my calls,” Jake says. “I just had to say that. Because I'm really fucking sorry. And I don't deserve anything from you or whatever, but I wanted you to know.” He runs out of steam. “So. Yeah.”

“Okay,” David says, his voice small, and Jake squeezes his eyes shut, because he hates that, he hates that David sounds like that, that Jake made him sound like that.

“Okay,” he says, shaky. “So I'm going to go now because I'm about to cry in public and then I will be chirped forever, but. You know. I'm kind of rambling here--” he needs to stop talking, if he keeps talking there are definitely going to be tears “--but I wanted you to know I was sorry, and I am kind of crazy in love with you--” oh fuck, definitely tears “--and can someone please take this fucking phone away from me, Jesus--”

There's a hand covering his, and he lets go of the phone, lets them take it, drops his head with a thunk on the table. 

“I hung up,” Joe says quietly to his left. 

“Kay,” Jake mumbles.

“Want a hug?” Joe asks.

“If you want me to cry all over you,” Jake says into the table. It's too late for the table, though.

“You've gotten worse shit all over me,” Joe says, squeezing his shoulder. “Nosebleed of 2011.”

“Fair,” Jake says, lets Joe haul him over, tucks his face in his neck. “Everyone staring?”

“Everyone's pretending they don't even know we're here because Parey's glaring at them,” Joe says. “Except for Gally. Gally's sitting on Parey's lap.”

Jake laughs wetly. “I thought he was passed out somewhere.”

“I'm pretty sure that was his master plan,” Joe says. “I'm going to give him his phone back, 'kay?”

“'Kay,” Jake agrees, and Joe's shoulder shifts under his cheek as he slides the phone across the table.

“Shouldn't have called him,” Jake says after a minute.

“Maybe not,” Joe says. “Definitely not drunk.”

“I'm like maybe tipsy,” Jake argues.

“You like maybe just told your ex you were crazy in love with him and then cried all over my shoulder,” Joe says. “So I'm like maybe going to take you home.”

“Shut up,” Jake grunts, but that's fair, and he lets Joe shoulder him off, wipes his face off before he looks up. Gally is in Parent's lap, like advertised, holding on with all his might while Parent tries to push him off. Nobody else is anywhere near them, and Jake wants to hug Parey for that, but he'd probably start crying again, and he doesn't think Parey would be as patient with getting tears all over his shirt as Joe is.

“Don't injure him,” Jake says to both of them when Joe scoots out of the booth and waits for him, and Parent rolls his eyes while Gally gives him a salute and an “Aye aye, captain!” Parent takes the opportunity Gallagher gives him to spill him onto the floor.

“Ow,” Gally says faintly, and Jake ends up leaving the bar laughing, though it fades by the time they're outside, waiting for a cab.

“You don't have to take me home,” Jake says.

“No, see,” Joe says. “It is now my job to keep you away from alcohol and phones. Also eat chocolate with you and watch some shitty chick flick.”

“The Notebook isn't shitty,” Jake says. “You cried.”

“I did not cry and I will thank you to stop saying so,” Joe says, and shoves Jake toward a stopped cab. “Or I'm going to eat all the chocolate.”

“You wouldn't do that to a sad man,” Jake says.

“I absolutely would, watch me,” Joe says.

He doesn't. And he only complains a little when Jake puts Moulin Rouge on, offers his shoulder for movie crying, which hurts a lot less than crying because your ex boyfriend sounds small and it's your fault. 

“Go to bed,” Joe says, when the movie's over. “And don't stay up all night thinking about this, dude, it isn't going to help.”

It doesn't, Joe's right, but Jake does anyway.


	13. scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intellectually, David knows that Jake's casual about those things, that he was drunk, that it adds up to being completely meaningless. Intellectually he knows this. 
> 
> In practice, it is fucking him up.

David can't stop thinking about it. Doesn't sleep that night, so it's probably for the best that he's been banned from practice, because he's so tired he can barely keep his eyes open, but every time he thinks he might be able to sleep, he can't breathe.

The thing he keeps getting stuck on, more than the apology, or missing him, or the fact that that girl isn't the love of Jake's life or whatever—the one thing he keeps getting stuck on is 'crazy in love with you', which makes his stomach clench up every time he thinks about it. 

Jake was drunk, and David knows you're not supposed to take anything someone says when they're drunk seriously. One night _Eisler_ told David he loved him, after David fed him a particularly good pass that ended in an OT goal. And Jake's even more affectionate than Eisler, he probably goes around telling his team he loves them--he ends every call with his parents or his sisters with a quick 'love you', thrown out like it's as easy as saying goodbye.

Intellectually, David knows that Jake's casual about those things, that he was drunk, that it adds up to being completely meaningless. Intellectually he knows this. 

In practice, it is fucking him up.

*

Who even says that on the phone for the first time? Says it after they haven't talked for months, after everything, when David can't even meet his eye, can't talk to him, never wants to see him again, misses him so much that it feels like a physical blow.

A puck makes stinging impact with his arm, and then there's a belated “Heads up, Chapman,” from Benson, laughter in his voice.

David swallows, doesn't reach up to rub the sting away, because it'd only make Benson happy, tries to blink his way into focus, which isn't working, because he's never had to try before. Everything off the ice disappears the second his skates hit it, but not today.

Kurmazov keeps frowning at him in the locker room after, which David tries, and fails, to duck.

“I'll drive you home,” he says, when David's in street clothes.

“I'm fine,” David says, but Kurmazov gets a stubborn, 'not a request' look on his face, so David sighs and follows him to the parking garage.

“Sorry,” David says, once Kurmazov pulls out. “I'll be better.”

“You're distracted,” Kurmazov says.

“I know,” David says. “I'm really sorry. I promise I'll get my head in the game.”

“Is this about--” Kurmazov starts, does a hand gesture that doesn't look like anything to David, but makes him flush anyway.

“I'll be better,” David says, instead of answering.

“We play Florida soon,” Kurmazov says, eyes on the road.

“I know,” David mumbles.

Kurmazov doesn't say anything else, about Jake at least, just says a couple things about his daughters that David tunes out on, not on purpose, but. He's distracted. He needs to stop being distracted. His team needs him to have his head in the game. It's not like he's the only player that matters, he's not arrogant, or anything, but they need all the help they can get, and David's line is the only consistent one they have. 

“I'll be better,” he promises again when Kurmazov drops him off, and Kurmazov claps a hand on his shoulder, gives him a nod.

*

He isn't better, not against the North Stars, gets bumped down to the second line before the end of the first, sits in the locker room with his head in his hands and tries to get himself into the game, and can't.

Kurmazov isn't the only one looking at him now—David can feel the room's attention like a blow.

*

He doesn't know what to do, sits in a hotel room in Minnesota, which looks like the hotel rooms everywhere else on the road, breakfast on a tray and his tie tightened, and he needs to get on the bus soon, and he can't make himself. He's got two bites of toast eaten, and eggs that have gone cold. He calls his agent.

Dave answers the phone with “What's wrong?”, which. To be fair, Dave's usually the one calling David, and he texts for a convenient time first. David doesn't know if he's ever called Dave first.

“Nothing,” David says, then, “If one of your players came out, do you have a contingency plan for that?”

Dave's quiet for a moment. “You planning on coming out, David?”

“No,” David says. “I just know this guy--”

“Yeah, you've got a friend,” Dave says. “You get caught? Any witnesses?”

“This is not about me,” David snaps, and he's embarrassed at how loud it comes out. 

Dave's quiet again. “We've got contingency plans, yeah,” he says finally. “Forced outing, purposeful. Whichever. Lapointe got us all working on it.”

“Okay,” David says.

“There anything you need to tell me, kid?” Dave asks. “No pressure here, it just helps me do my job.”

David can't manage anything for a moment, but this is his agent, and this is his career, and this is a blindsider that could ruin everything, contingency plans or not. “I'm not going to come out,” he says, finally, and almost chokes on it.

“Not asking you to,” Dave says easily, doesn't skip a beat, like David commented on the weather. Like David didn't out himself for the first time. “There something up? Someone threatening to let shit slip?”

“No it's—” David starts. It'd probably help Dave more if he knew about Jake, but that isn't David's thing to tell. “I think some of the guys know. On the Isles and—on another team.”

Dave's quiet longer this time. “It's probably not going to leave the locker room. The guys on the other team give you any shit?”

“No,” David says.

“The thing with Lourdes still going on?” Dave asks.

David goes hot. “I didn't say anything--”

“I'm not actually an idiot,” Dave says. “And Jake came to me two months ago with the same question you did.”

“Did he tell you about me?” David snaps.

“Just said there was a guy,” Dave says. “Magical process of deduction over here. You two planning on running off to get married and make my life harder?”

“No,” David says, mortified.

“Fair enough,” Dave says. “Want to talk about contract renewal?”

“Yes,” David says, grateful, and lets Dave change the subject, break down what's going to come up in the offseason, is late for the drive to the airport, which has the whole team staring at him again. 

*

They play the Oilers, and David's ice time is in the single digits. Eisler wraps an arm around him after the game, and David can't bring himself to shake it off.

*

The hotel room in Edmonton looks the same as the one in St. Paul, and David's tired. It's midnight, and he needs to sleep, he needs to shake this, he's going to be a healthy scratch if he keeps this up, and he'll deserve it, because nothing's hitting his stick.

It's two in the morning on the East Coast, and David calls anyway.

Jake answers on the third ring, sounding groggy. “David,” he says.

“Who just says that?” David asks.

“Says what?” Jake asks.

“Who just—you can't say things like that,” David says.

“I--” Jake starts.

“No, shut up, I'm talking,” David snaps. “You can't just call me and say things--you weren't even--” 

He tries to take a breath, another, can't manage.

“Hey,” Jake says softly, and David wants to tell him to shut up, but he can't get the air. “Breathe in slow. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Four count, okay?”

David tries, but he can't hold the air. 

“I do,” Jake says, after David's managed a few shaky breaths. “I—fuck, David.”

David squeezes his eyes shut, focuses on the four count until he's got enough air to speak. “You're ruining my hockey,” he says. 

Jake makes a noise like he's been punched. “I'm sorry,” he says. “That's the last thing—I'm sorry.”

“Who says that?” David asks, plaintive.

“I shouldn't have,” Jake says. “I know I shouldn't have, I'm sorry. I mean it, I—you need to know I mean it, but I shouldn't have.”

“I need hockey, Jake,” David says.

“I know,” Jake says. “I know. What do you need me to do? You need me to leave you alone? You need that, I promise, I won't even look at you on the ice. What do you need?”

“I don't know,” David says helplessly, choked. “Jake--”

“We're going to breathe together, okay?” Jake says softly, “In slowly, okay? One Mississippi...”

David listens, follows his instructions until it's instinct, lungs filling, emptying, and Jake's voice soft in his ear. 

“Sleep tight, David,” Jake says, and between one breath and the next, David does.


	14. captain obvious

Chapman is playing poorly. Oleg's heard the other descriptions across the locker room, and 'poorly' is as nice as they come. 'Like shit' is common. Poorly is what they use in the media, but it's not nice when they say it, it's barbed, and they bring it up every opportunity they get, will ask Oleg if he thinks Chapman's washed up after innocuous questions about the penalty kill.

Oleg, ten years his senior, and very much not washed up, is a little offended by the question, as well as the near identical questions that follow, but he brushes them off like litter, blocks them from wandering over to Chapman, lets Chapman stew in the locker room, when he isn't the first on the bus back to the hotel.

There are reasons. Reasons, not excuses, but Oleg knows it's not out of the blue. After the birth of his first daughter, he slipped, exhausted, prone to flinching before hits came. It's not the same, obviously, but he understands that personal business has an effect on play, that it isn't in Chapman's control. 

He's not going to talk to Chapman about the reason. He isn't comfortable, and it's not—it's not the guy thing, at least he doesn't think so. If Chapman was hiding an injury or an illness, that would be easy, straightforward, but this he's unsure how to deal with. 

Eisler's the type that would know what to say, how to deal with it, not Chapman's play, exactly, but the reason behind it, but Eisler doesn't appear to know anything about that, and it isn't Oleg's right to tell him, especially since he hasn't technically been told himself. Still, Oleg wishes he did know, because he has no game plan for this, beyond continuing the extended practices, which feel like a waste of time, with Chapman distracted. He's never resented Chapman from the time away from home, though he knows his wife does, because it's out of the genuine urge to be better, and it does seem to make a difference. Right now, he does resent it, missing breakfast with the girls, not being able to take Tatiana to school, instead out the door quietly so he doesn't wake Maria if she's miraculously sleeping a whole night through. 

Instead, he's on the ice, watching Chapman apologize, grim-faced, and still not get better. Chapman's supposed to be a force for their team, a rallying point, and he is. Sometimes—often—he takes the ice and Oleg's blown away. Sometimes, often, but not right now.

*

Oleg wishes Eisler would figure it out, so he could figure Chapman out, but he remains stupid, oblivious. To be fair, Oleg will admit that he might have been a little more likely to notice it after all the complaining Dmitry did over the summer about catching an undisclosed teammate making out with his boyfriend after winning the Cup, and how his eyes would never recover.

“How do you know it was his boyfriend?” Oleg asked him sceptically.

“There's a way about it,” Dmitry told him confidently. “They kiss differently—like this,” before leaning in to Oleg with his lips puckered and cackling when Oleg shoved him away with a horrified grunt. 

He liked telling that story, because it had the Cup in it. Most of his stories did, and he didn't seem to tire of them in the lead up to his day with the Cup, which he invited Oleg to with a condescending “You deserve a day with the Cup too.”

Oleg took his family to Sochi instead, and the girls delighted on the beach while he watched the construction, thought about next year, bringing home something Dmitry never would.

*

They travel, and Chapman gets worse. The team has started to notice, or more, to pay attention to it the way the media is, but that's to be expected when Chapman's shedding minutes faster than Oleg can blink. 

“Do you know what's up?”, Berg asks, breakfast in Calgary. “He's playing like Brouwer out there.”

“He'd need to learn to check first,” Brouwer says from the end of the table, face hidden behind a newspaper. 

Berg practically jumps out of his chair, then shoots Oleg an accusatory look, but if he failed to notice Brouwer and his general tendency to hide from the louder kids at mealtime by parking himself where he's least likely to be bothered, he deserves it. Brouwer is not a small man, even behind a newspaper. 

*

Before the team can get too agitated, before management can do more than wring their hands, before the media can call for Chapman's head on a spike, like they seem so tempted to do, it ebbs. Chapman's settling down; he plays on the third line in a game against Winnipeg, gets a secondary assist, and looks a little less like he's going to throw up in the locker room, though he must still be aware what he played like, unlike himself, distracted, broken plays scattered, not the fluid playmaker that Oleg has started to take for granted on his line. Oleg and Eisler aren't much better, trying to accommodate for the blunt physical play of Vickers, which is unnecessary when they've got Eisler to add physicality to their line, and Vickers can't keep up with them when they open up on the ice. 

They return home. The Florida game approaches, and Chapman has simultaneously gotten a little better on the ice and started to look more and more like he's going to throw up. Oleg recognizes that expression out of self-preservation—it tends to precede him getting vomit all over him. Usually from his daughters and not his teammates, but not always. The day of, Chapman looks so sick that even Benson looks a little concerned, and Oleg thinks the team's doctors are going to scratch him, whether or not he's actually ill, and that maybe it would be for the best. 

Oleg has no idea why Chapman is cleared, even if there's nothing wrong with him, physically, because they take the ice, Chapman on the first line in a show of faith and the worst possible line-combination for the moment, and he still looks green. Like a rookie in his first game, but with the addition of facing his—Oleg doesn't know. Oleg isn't going to ask. 

He plays well. He plays surprisingly well, honestly, not at his best, but at a decent clip, feeds the passes Oleg hadn't realized he depended on, assists on a cheap goal of Eisler's in the second that Oleg is frankly just glad didn't end in a goaltender interference penalty.

Lourdes is the opposite. Lourdes is playing, well. Poorly is a word for it. Lourdes turns the puck over at neutral ice just in time for Oleg to capitalize, pass it in a long feed to Chapman, who streaks forward in a beautiful breakaway and buries it before the goaltender can get square, his first point tallying night in awhile, first goal in awhile, first two point night in longer. He's the second star, behind a shutout, and in the room after Eisler ruffles his hair, looking perturbed when Chapman still looks determinedly sick.

Oleg watches him out of the corner of his eye, the way he toys with his phone before putting it back, and when Chapman comes out of the shower he pulls him aside gently. He's not sure what to say, but he's been known to improvise. More on the ice than off it, really, but Chapman speaks in hockey, so it's much the same.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Oleg asks, offers him an out, an easy excuse.

“I can get home fine,” Chapman says, not looking at him.

“I don't care,” Oleg says. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

Chapman looks up, catches his eye. “No,” he says, flat, determined, and sure, and Oleg nods, lets him go.


	15. and then

David wakes up with his phone under his cheek, gone dead. Charges it while he showers, tries and fails not to stare at it while he gets dressed, unblocks Jake’s number before he leaves his room. He shouldn’t think anything about it, because it’s not like Jake’s texting him anyway.

He gets a text within the hour, _are you ok?_ , and he can just imagine Jake agonizing over it, replacing textspeak with full words, because David hates it and Jake knows it. Still uses it, most of the time, but knows it.

Texts back _I’m fine._ at breakfast while Berg makes a comment, three feet from David, that David’s playing like Brouwer, and Brouwer retorts he’d have to learn to check first. David goes red, and Brouwer looks over at him, raises an eyebrow and shrugs unapologetically, which. It’s not like anything untrue was said, either that David is playing like a fourth liner, or that right now, Brouwer’s more valuable to the team than David is, because he’s actually fulfilling the role he’s supposed to. 

David ducks his head, pays attention to his food. 

*

In Winnipeg they bump him to Benson’s line, though that sticks for less than half the game, because David doesn’t trust Benson any more on the ice than off it, which seems like the right decision, because Benson’s not passing to him, would rather a suicidal pass more likely to get to the opponent, rather than a quick five-feeter to David. They keep David on the line, just shuffle Green to the wing and push Benson up to the second, and that’s insult to injury, that David’s play has him promoted. David gets a secondary assist in the third, which snaps the point drought but probably means Benson’s going to be sneering at him from the second line until David remembers how to play again.

They lose the game, and it’s not David’s fault, but he didn’t help either.

In his hotel room after, he gets a text from Jake, _nice assist_ , which he doesn’t think is true, really, but personal dissatisfaction aside, a point’s more than he’s had going for him in awhile. Wonders, fleetingly, if Jake’s been sending this kind of thing half the season, each text getting lost on the way. It’s a stupid thought, and fundamentally irrelevant. He thinks too hard about it, stares too long at the text, and finally sends a _Thank you._ before he can overthink it any further.

*

They return to New York, and David still can’t play. Endures meetings with the coaching staff, who ask questions he doesn’t know the answer to. Stops asking Kurmazov for practices because right now it’s a waste of both of their time. Rehearses his answers for the media, who are asking the same kinds of questions as the coaching staff, but without even the cursory attempt to softball it.

Jake continues to text him, things that remind David of his own fumbling attempts to open communication last season after he’d thought he’d wrecked things. These aren’t so much comments about David’s game, which is a little better than it was on the road, but still nothing to be proud of, but random, out of the blue texts, not necessarily about anything. They’re so much like Jake is in person, impossible to track, suddenly wondering out loud if there’s a waffle place in Toronto, deciding there must be, and then dragging David to go get waffles at four in the afternoon. Laughing at David for asking for egg whites and then sneaking bacon onto his plate when he isn’t paying attention.

David initiates it only once, when Jake’s on all the replay reels after his goaltender left the net disastrously, and a sprawling Jake managed to get a stick on it while it was crossing the line. _Are you saving goals now too?_ he sends, unwillingly impressed.

 _ill do w/e u wnt me 2 bb,_ Jake sends. David has to puzzle over it for a minute before his face goes red. He’s still dealing with it when he gets another text, _this is joe. cap made me take his phone. hes currently face down on the table moaning about being an idiot which i figured youd like to know._

It doesn’t make him less red--and there’s something that turns over in his gut, knowing that Forster is very aware of whom he is sending a text to, aware of why. It still makes him crack a smile.

*

There’s a game against Florida coming up, one David’s far too aware of, considering it’s such an afterthought even the local bars probably won’t play it, two poorly performing teams with little to no chance at contention, once again, and no rivalry to make things interesting. David knows how the last few have gone, at least off the ice, but the texting probably changes things. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Jake--he always wants to see Jake, even when he doesn’t, even when the idea makes him vaguely nauseated--but right now he isn’t sure he _can_. Thinks with Jake around he’d forget the past few months, and it’s not like he wants to remember them, but he doesn’t trust Jake, and he doesn’t think he trusts himself around Jake. 

The game creeps closer, and he gets better, bit by bit, so when it comes around he gets taken aside, told he’s going to play on the first line, that they’ve got faith in him, and he wants to tell them it’s a terrible idea, a terrible time, that he really shouldn’t be line-matched with Jake Lourdes when he doesn’t even know how he feels about him, but there’s no way in hell he’ll turn down the first line after going without.

Kurmazov’s watching him closely before the game, like he can tell how close David is to throwing up like a rookie called up for their first, and David would tell him he’s fine, he’ll play fine, but there’s no real guarantee of that. He loses the first face-off, far too aware of Jake’s proximity, but it gets a little better on his second shift, gradually through the first period, and by the time they take the ice for the second it could be any other game, especially after he feeds Eisler a shot he shoves under the goaltender’s arm with one skate firmly planted in the blue, about as close to the definition of goaltender interference there is, but the ref calls it a good goal, which is all that matters. He feels settled after that, on home ice, on his line, quick tight passes to Kurmazov that they’ve pulled off hundreds, thousands of times, and that pays off when Kurmazov intercepts the puck at centre ice, passes it to where he knows David will be once it gets there, and David is, tape to tape, clean as anything, and it’s like breathing to streak forward with it, bury it in the back of the net.

Eisler crashes into him before he’s managed to raise his arms, arms tight around his waist as he knocks his helmet into David’s visor. “There’s my Sniper Snapman,” he crows, and David rolls his eyes, elbows him off as Kurmazov and the D catch up, tries not to see where Jake’s still at centre ice, looking lost, because this is his first goal in weeks, and there is nothing that will keep him from enjoying it.

He keeps that mind set until the game winds down, mind determinedly blank, until they’re calling him back on the ice for the second star. It’s his first time being one of the three stars since before the Christmas break, and he should be enjoying it more, but the game’s tucked away, a goal and an assist, five points shared among the first line, two points and a shutout for the Isles and nothing for the Panthers. It was a good game, a great one, and David played well, but it’s over now, and David’s just left wondering what Jake’s going to ask from him, whether he’s able to give it.

Eisler ruffles his sweaty hair in the room, unfazed when David nudges him off to take a shower. When he comes back, Kurmazov reels him into a corner with a gentle hand, asks if he wants a ride home. David blinks. “I can get home fine,” he says.

“I don’t care,” Kurmazov says, low. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

David looks up at him, the flat line of his mouth. “No,” he says. After Kurmazov had, last time, David felt like a coward, and he isn’t one. Kurmazov nods shortly, lets him go, and David has the patience to get his briefs on back at his stall before he checks his phone.

 _congrats on the goal_ , is waiting for him, and then, about ten seconds later, _do u want 2 get coffee or a drink or sumthin? no pressure oviously. losers treat_

“Chaps,” Eisler says, and David looks up from his phone just in time to get a droplet of water in the eye as Eisler's wet hair drips all over him. “We’re going out. Game-winner gets free drinks, and I’m willing to share one for the assist.” He’s telling more than he’s asking, but even then, David doesn’t think he expects David to agree. That’s fair, David usually wouldn’t, but right now it slightly stings. 

“Okay,” David says after a minute, then, “But I get two free drinks. Two points, two drinks.”

Eisler grins at him. “Sure.”

“You’re dripping water all over me,” David says.

Eisler shakes himself like a dog, only grining wider when David shoves at his thigh.

 _I’m going out with the team,_ David texts once Eisler’s wandered off to find more people. _but next time_ , 

It’s more of a promise than an excuse.


End file.
